And I Started Just Over Three Years Ago With A Cheese Sandwich
by DictionaryWrites
Summary: There's something Oscar Wilde-y about unrequited feelings, yes, but God knows they're a bit of a bugger. Douglas just wishes Martin would stop being quite so attractive - he's got business to be getting on with, after all. And Martin, for his part, wishes much the same without realizing how mutual it is. Like I said: a bit of a bugger. D/M. Slow burn.
1. Chapter 1

George Pontmareau, his name is, and despite the French sounding name, he's English. From Norfolk, actually - Douglas had met the bloke whilst in med school, and he'd been working in a book shop, at the time. Douglas recalls it well, sidling down the streets of Cambridge and slipping into one shop or another: by no means was it difficult, at the time, for him to _afford_ his textbooks, but by no sensible means did that mean he wanted to pay full price for them. That is where George had come in: he'd been just slightly younger than Douglas, and quite charmed by his attentions at the handy second hand little store.

Still works in a book shop, though now his location has now changed slightly: Chicago. An American friend had become a boyfriend, and then a fiancé, and then a husband - though sadly the American part had remained unchanged - and George had moved home with him.

And George, from all Douglas has heard, adores the place, adores the baseball, the loudness, the brightness, the city… All except for one issue: cheese. While hardly a connoisseur, George, as he has all the time Douglas has known him, has a particular fondness for cheddar.

And according to him, the Americans do the cheddar "wrong".

So when they get a cargo flight to the windy city, Douglas puts the cheese sandwich aside in the galley, keeps it refrigerated - it's a simple gesture, nothing to come of it, in truth. He just wants to see the idiot's big grin when he sees the thing, without butter.

But, as so often happens in _The Good Life,_ as enjoyed by Douglas Richardson, things go rather better than he'd hoped.

George takes the sandwich with utter delight, eating it and talking around it in a disgusting fashion that reminds Douglas of Arthur, and Douglas is indulgent. George insists it can't go unrewarded, though, and then he slips into the back and returns with a first edition, signed, of the fourth Harry Potter book. Ordinarily, Douglas might have refused so pleasant a gesture but-

He does know a young Potterhead that lives in Fitton, and they're flying back tonight. So he takes it, graciously, and gives the ridiculous fellow a friendly hug before making his way home. Besides, Douglas might not be especially interested in the fantasy of youths, but even he knows the fourth book of such a popular series isn't so indulgent a gesture – it's likely been on George's shelf with the vague intention of its being sold onto a collector for a while now.

"New novel, is it, Douglas?" Martin regards him with obvious amusement as Douglas sets the thing aside, and Douglas hums. He does like it when Martin teases – he doesn't usually begin teasing interactions, queer, nervous thing as he is, but Douglas does rather enjoy it when Martin has the confidence, most of the time.

"Oh yes, Martin. Broadening my horizons." Martin snorts, taking his hat off, and Douglas has to restrain himself from reaching out and ruffling his hair – it's barely ever cut, in truth, because Martin never seems to have six pounds fifty to spare for a quick cut, and lacks the dexterity and confidence to do it himself – simply because it's thick and bright bloody ginger.

He really should get Martin's hair cut, shouldn't he? Mmm, a scheme to consider.

"Let me know how you like it," Martin says, just slightly over-eager, and Douglas gives him a sideways glance. Martin's freckled nose is pointed down at the flight controls in front of him, his fingers flicking dials, buttons and the like as he works with utter concentration, but Douglas had heard the _excitement_ in his voice.

"A fan, are you?" Douglas raises an eyebrow when Martin meets his amused gaze, and he flushes a pretty colour, staring at the flight column and his own hands. Some of his freckles connect when he blushes, and Douglas does like the sight.

"I- one of the students left his set behind, a while back-"

"Ah. So you read them religiously?" Douglas doubts he has many books. Even though there are cheap second-hand book shops in Fitton, Martin pinches his pennies as best he can. Well. He has to – God knows how much money he actually has, but Douglas' salary is fairly modest, and he sincerely doubts that Martin's is any better.

"Not _religiously_ , Douglas-"

"Have you been charmed, Martin? Been enchanted by the series? Bewitched? Did the books cast their spell on you?" Douglas can't help but be delighted at the sound the younger man makes – Martin all but giggles, and he opens his mouth for a few moments, obviously trying to come up with some equally witty retort, but his brain fails him. He abandons any hope of wit.

"Shut up." He's grinning, nonetheless. Bless the boy.

The sat comm goes and Douglas picks up the call, allowing Martin freedom from a battle of drollery.

* * *

Penelope loves the book. She's a delightful girl, truly, just past twenty nine (Douglas ought have introduced her to Martin a long time back, but every time something holds him back from doing what would be terrific for him and fantastic for her), and she cosplays regularly.

Cosplaying is something beyond Douglas, in truth, but the one time he had consented to allow Penelope Trent to dress him up like a paper doll in black robes and convinced him to imitate the dry, sarcastic tones of Severus Snape, Joanna had been delighted. She'd been utterly ecstatic to see Daddy as such, and she'd rather enjoyed the comic convention too. It had been odd for Douglas, in a hall full of terribly sweaty young people in ridiculous costumes, getting excited about videogames and comics, but it had been entirely worth it for Joanna.

Besides, Douglas had received a tremendous amount of attention himself, and he's hardly ever been the type to decline posing for a photograph. Particularly when one is in costume – one cannot waste the endeavour.

Penelope grins as soon as Douglas enters her office to visit her, too – she works in a publisher's, and if Joanna grows up to be half as confident as this young woman is, Douglas will be so very proud. Of course, he'll be terribly proud anyway – his dear daughter, all four feet of her, is utterly perfect.

"Douglas, you shouldn't have!" Penelope scolds him, and he grins. He likes the girl's voice; she has the voice of a girl raised on elocution lessons, but so much excitement comes through that it's rather difficult to hold it against her, as one would like to do with most such women.

"Oh, of course I should have," Douglas returns in a voice as smooth as new ice on the rink, and he grins at her. "You do like it?"

"Oh, it's perfect! The pages aren't even dog-eared, Douglas, well done!" She pulls him down by his lapel and presses a quick kiss to his cheek, gesturing for him to follow him into a cupboard. Douglas raises an eyebrow, but steps closer, peering into the closet with interest.

Ah.

"It's from the 60s, Chanel. It's in terribly good condition, Douglas, and though I didn't want to sell it, if you'd like an exchange of gifts…" Penelope holds it up by its hanger, and Douglas wonders, absently, how long it had been in there. Penelope Trent has the most amusing compunction in that she cannot refuse what she believes to be a bargain, and subsequently she ends up with all manner of valuable bric-a-brac about her flat, gathered as a result of its underpricing.

"Oh, Penelope, it's perfect. Not certain it will fit me, though." She laughs, grinning at him.

"You could try and squeeze in…" She says playfully, poking the middle button of his blazer, and he takes the hanger gently from her, hanging the suit over one of his arms and feeling the thick, neatly knitted fabric under his fingers. It's truly a gorgeous little number, and something he rather wishes might return to fashion.

* * *

It so happens that Douglas knows a salesman of vintage clothing, a man in Perth – an old fellow, seventy or so. When Douglas is given the note from Carolyn that they have an Australian booking (to Kalgoorlie-Boulder Airport, no less, a combination of some cargo of climbing equipment and another of some Australians), he gives old Paul a ring.

"Paul? It's Douglas Richardson here-" He always worries, ridiculously, that they will forget him. It's never happened yet, that an old fellow has forgotten him (Douglas is not the sort of man to be forgotten) but still, the irrational worry lingers with him, and he feels slight relief pool in his chest when he hears Paul's excited, hoarse tones down the line.

"Douglas! Alright, mate, how're you doing? How's Jeannie?" Well. That's awkward.

"Ah. Not actually with Jean anymore, Paul. We divorced some time ago. The current belle is Helena." Sort of. It's not strictly a lie, is it? In public, he and Helena are still quite entwined, and he hardly wants Paul to be setting him up with some young lady of Perth.

"Oh, God, sorry about that."

"No, no, quite alright. I've got something of interest, however. A vintage suit, in fact, 60s. Chanel."

" _Really_?" Paul demands, as excited about a women's suit as a man can possibly be.

* * *

In return, he receives an album of stamps, which he ends up exchanging for Beárnaise sauce, oddly enough. Sixteen massive jars of the stuff, and it's when they're in Cyprus that he gives them over for a very impressive selection of orchids.

"Ah, Douglas, _ef charisto poli_!" Dimitri is a lovely man, truly he is – Douglas has been fond of him for a long time, even after they'd broken up. It had been an amicable separation, after all, and was long since past, now. "So, is Helena…?"

"She is well, yes. We're just finalizing the divorce now." Douglas glances down at the mosquito candle on the table, setting his jaw slightly. He's quite uncomfortable with this sort of chatter, and goodness knows he's glad that Dimitri lives in Cyprus – were the man living in Fitton, Douglas would never be so very frank. Douglas can leave on an aeroplane soon enough, after all, and Douglas likes to deal with his feelings upon his own whim, not on those of someone else.

"Oh." Dimitri regards him with a small frown, patting his hand. "You'll find someone."

"Oh, I've found several someones, Dimitri, but unfortunately they never seem to last." Dimitri snorts, pouring bottled water into the kettle and then flicking it on. A cup of tea isn't truly Douglas' thing in the middle of a Mediterranean August, but to each man his own.

"And there is no one else?" Dimitri regards him quizzically, with interest, and then waves his hand in a vague motion. "The cabin boy. The redhead-"

"Captain."

"Pardon?"

"He's not the cabin boy, Dimitri. He's the captain." Dimitri blinks at him.

"Oh. Well, all the same, why not him?"

"Well, I'm reasonably certain he's not attracted to men, and I'm old enough to be his father." Douglas says, unamusedly. There's something like discomfort in the pit of his stomach, and he can't quite decide why it's so very uncomfortable.

"You are old enough to be Jeannie's father, no? And you, in fact, fathered someone by her. Has he met Joanna? Your captain?" What a terribly good question to ask – Martin and Joanna haven't met, no, but would they get on? Douglas is certain they would. Immediately, he knows that Joanna would find Martin's nerves to be both quaint and amusing, and she would take great pleasure in his company and his desperate attempts to teach her things; Martin, for his part, is not excellent with children, but he knows that Martin would be charmed by Joanna's manners and her polite interest in matters of aviation.

"No," Douglas says, "Not yet. Dimitri, really, we're not- he's quite-"

"Oh, no, no, I understand." Dimitri spreads his hands, amused. "I shall say no more. Tea?" Relief floods through him – the conversation is _over_.

"No, thank you. Some Coca-Cola?"

* * *

"Are you about to propose to me, Douglas?" For some reason, Douglas panics. He doesn't let it show, of course, but inwardly his heart has just sped up by a good amount, and irrationally he wonders how Dimitri, the damn Cypriot, had managed to get into contact with Martin Crieff.

"It pains me to break your heart, Martin, but no. These are for another man – a Finnish customs officer named Milo, to be exact." His tone is amused and mocking, and when Martin looks at him, it is with the most obscene _O_ twisting his lips, looking as utterly scandalized as some figure on a poster with over-expressive features.

"And what does he have that I don't have?" Oh, imagine if this was honest. Oh, imagine. Damn Dimitri for putting the damn idea into his head – date Martin? Martin? Carolyn would be furious, age gap and others aside. And he's hardly got the best romantic reputation, now has he? Kate, break up. Jeannie, and they'd had Joanna, and they'd still broken up. And Helena -

Well.

"Fish cakes," Douglas answers succinctly. Martin cracks up, and the joy that bursts on that freckled face makes Douglas feel terribly warm inside. Oh, Dimitri Koulamis, you bastard. Douglas is going to smack him hard the next time he sees him.


	2. Chapter 2

Douglas doesn't sleep at all that night. It's Dimitri's fault, damn you, Dimitri, and it's Martin's fault for being so- oh, damn it all. And it's certainly made worse by the fact that he doesn't have a wife anymore, or at least, he soon won't. Divorce papers, how he hates them. They're stacked too neatly on the desk in his bedroom, and he avoids them entirely, settling down on the sofa, watching repeats of _Inspector Frost_ on ITV, and irritably scrolling through Facebook. He selects an option to hide future posts from Helena Richardson, and when he sees a picture Martin has taken of the clouds, he irritably drops his phone aside.

It isn't Martin's fault that Douglas is getting divorced, but he hates it, and he hates how it makes him feel, and he hates how once more he's alone in a too-big, _beautiful_ house, and he can't even call his daughter. It's something to be embarrassed about, certainly, though Martin hasn't yet brought Helena up too terribly, defensive as Douglas gets if he so much as asks after her health. Oh, damn it all to Hell.

The flight to Zurich, thank God, no one comments on the dark shadows under Douglas' eyes, and when they're in Switzerland and settling into a very average hotel room, Martin gets a phone call. They're sharing a room, and Martin runs from the bathroom to answer it, his hair yet damp and beginning to fluff; he's got only a pair of pyjama bottoms on, and Douglas uses the mirror in the wardrobe door to pretend he's not enjoying the freckles all over his body.

"Mum? What's happened?" He's always looked at those freckles, when opportunity strikes – not that Martin notices. Douglas has seen many a girl (and boy, for that matter) lean to have a look at him, but it's all over Martin's head. "Well, no, I mean- a party...? I can't- Mum, no, it's just- money's a bit tight this month, I mean-"

How much does Carolyn pay him? A fair amount, he'd wager, but Martin's certainly not a particularly common-sense sort of fellow, now is he? He never seems to have money for anything at all – never buys books, never goes out for meals, always has worn clothes. Douglas can allow for Martin to have a meagre salary, as Douglas' is more than modest, but Douglas, at least, has paid off his mortgage and has a lot of money saved – but Martin _does_ get a fair amount of money, even for a pilot.

Does he get pay day loans, or something ridiculous like that?

It's one of those things Douglas wishes it wasn't rude to ask about – he could contentedly assist, after all. Perhaps take excuses to give the other man scratchcards – God knows he wouldn't take money, no, but birthday, Christmas, et cetera, if he puts two or three scratchcards in each one...

Well. It's something to consider, anyway.

"He doesn't need a party, Mum! Everything's about hi- yes, I know." Douglas keeps his head pointed down towards the book held in his hands, a rather trashy thriller he finds himself quite amused by, and he continues to glance at Martin sideways in the mirror. Martin, from all Douglas has heard from these conversations, doesn't get on with his brother. Simon, if Douglas recalls, and Douglas must wonder, when he eavesdrops like this, what the man is like. "Yes, Mum, good night."

Martin stands on his tip-toes to put his phone on the top shelf (he's so very short, and something about that thrills Douglas right to the very pit of his belly in a way he truly oughtn't consider about his commanding officer) and Douglas catches sight of a black mark at the base of Martin's right ankle. Despite Martin's intense struggle with the average height of a human man, he's somehow managed to find pyjama bottoms that are too short for his legs, and when they ride up slightly they bare nearly up to his calf. He leans forwards to examine the mark, but Martin immediately disappears into the bathroom again, and he misses it.

A bruise? How in God's name did he get a bruise on the back of his ankle? Idiot boy.

Douglas trades the fish for seven hundred pounds' worth of silk (the perfect thing for a friend in Vienna, who'd be picking it up from the good seaport of Gdańsk later that week), and then settles in the flight deck. He could quite comfortably settle into a nap for some time, but he can hardly do so just before the flight – he would truly hate to listen to Martin's opinions on such things.

He's absent about flicking through Facebook, doing it just for something to occupy his fingers as he waits – he sees a few posts from Herc Shipwright, out with some pretty young woman, and for a second he's jealous, until he realizes the girl is his daughter.

Good God, he's getting lecherous in his old age.

He hopes to catch sight of Martin's ankle and see the bruise better as he comes in, but of course Martin's wearing his smart shoes and smart socks, and smart uniform and terribly ridiculous gold braid. Alas. He'd ask, of course, but he hardly needs to alert Martin to his paying any particular attention to his body.

Martin has never struck him as a bigoted man, no, but God knows Douglas would hate the discussion with Carolyn if Martin ever began to insist he couldn't share a twin bedroom with his first officer anymore.

It wouldn't be the end of the world, no, as each of them share with Arthur commonly enough, but Douglas couldn't stand the embarrassment, the humiliation of it, and moreover, he couldn't stand the _pain_. Douglas had never been some pretty individual on the frontlines of the movement, painting a pretty slogan on a sign and spitting in the face of some heterosexual establishment, but he's quietly enjoyed the quiet shift in worldwide sensibilities the past few years.

"Ready to go?" Martin asks. He has an ever so slight flush on his features from his brisk, stiff-backed walk in doing the walk-around, and Douglas does his best not to be amused.

"Certainly, Captain," Douglas replies sweetly, locking his phone and dropping it aside.

And they do.

* * *

Douglas, twenty minutes ago, had been utterly furious. He doesn't need that from Martin, of all people – Martin isn't one of the twats from Air England, ready to grasp at the sharpest thing he can get and jab it into Douglas' psyche, oughtn't even consider rubbing Douglas' wife in his face.

Especially not given that it was Martin that set the whole bloody disaster in motion, making Douglas drop the act of his as a captain, because Lord knows he and Helena might still be quite content were it not for-

No, let's not be ridiculous.

It was Douglas' fault for lying all that time, and Helena's for cheating. Just as it had been Douglas' fault for thinking she might truly be so content with _him_ , and Douglas' fault for all of his time with Jeannie, and then… Well. None of Douglas' life so far can be blamed on the tiny, freckled figure of Martin Crieff.

Even if Martin had been vicious, Douglas doesn't have it in him to bite at him once Martin reveals he isn't paid a salary at all. Not at all. And this is the reason he never buys anything, and why he always avoids Douglas' bets, and why his shoes are old and his hair is uncut, and God. He'd just thought the boy was a bit of an idiot, and isn't that an injustice?

Douglas, of course, lets forth none of his honest concern.

No, he distracts the boy, brings him back to Snow White – anything to bring a smile to that idiotic, freckled face and not have to think about the fact that he has no money.

But he does think about it when he goes home, home where he lives alone and Helena has gone to live with her Tai Chi instructor, a nice two bedroom house that Douglas lives alone in. It's a house Douglas has been intensely happy with over the past several years, and it is utterly perfect: his bedroom has a bright, wide window overlooking a park, his bathtub is huge and luxurious and surrounded by neat, clean cabinets, and his garden is neatly kept, his kitchen, his living room…

And that's the problem, isn't it? They're all _his_ , now, and not _ours_.

And he doesn't want to go, God knows he doesn't, and he could perhaps afford to move if he really so chose, but-

There's something pathetic about living in a two bedroom house on one's lonesome, isn't there? But no, no, he'll stay, and Joanna can still come regularly and he'll do the bedroom up for her as opposed to keeping a regular guest room. It'll be cheaper, anyway – not so many groceries, bare water and electric bills.

No wife.

He sighs, rubbing at his face and running himself a bath. He wants a drink. Bloody Hell, does he want a drink, and God knows he can't have one - particularly not when Carolyn, Martin and Arthur already know about him being sober – if they didn't, perhaps it wouldn't feel like so much of a betrayal.

Or perhaps he's just reasoning with his addiction as best he can. Probably the second.

The phone's ringing jars him slightly, but he walks cleanly down the hall, bare-foot and still wearing half of his uniform, and he leans and picks up the landline swiftly enough all the same. "Richardson household," he answers, and immediately regrets it. How pathetic an answer to the phone is that, when one lives entirely alone?

"Daddy?" Oh, but this is precisely what he needs right now. Bless her little heart. Joanna's voice is soft and quiet and eager, and he grins immediately, taking the phone with him into the bathroom as he pours a little bubblebath into the steaming water.

"Joanna! Hello, my girl, are you alright?"

"Yeah, Mummy said I could phone! It's Monday, you know!"

"Yes, darling, I know. You had ballet, yes?"

"Yeah! And a violin lesson!"

"Oh, you're learning the violin now, are you? Why, I do believe I can see concerts in your future, you know..." They don't talk for too long, truly – it's really past her bed time, which he points out swiftly enough despite how glad he is to speak with her, and after that Jean takes the phone. It takes all that Douglas is not to hang up as soon as he hears her tense, slightly nasal voice.

"I expected Helena to answer," she says simply, and it's not bitter or nasty, not really, but there is an underlying, dangerous tremor that leaves Douglas slightly perturbed even after all these years away from her. He remembers a time when he loved Jeannie's voice, loved her soft, sweet voice, but he doesn't remember what it sounded like, all those years ago. All he knows is this newer, stiffer voice, and how much she hates him.

"No, no, Helena shan't be answering at all, now," Douglas says. "She's altered her lodgings – better mattress in her new place, though I shan't imagine that's the only reason." There's a pause. Jean is triumphant, and Douglas knows that. She's not glad so much as she feels justice has been served. That cold sense of equity always did set him on edge.

"Oh," Jeannie says, not feeling the need to say anything else, obviously.

"Tai Chi instructor." Douglas doesn't know what compels him to add in the detail: it feels so very pedestrian, if not quite so common as tennis instructor or dance tutor.

"Oh, really? Well done, her."

"Not at all: she could have done far better. She could have married an executive director, but I suppose she was never one for aiming quite so high." He hears absolutely nothing from the other line, but he can see in his mind's eye Jeannie's hand twisting and tightening around the wire of her charming, retro telephone (he bought her that for their first anniversary, mustard yellow with a rotary dial), and he visualizes the skin tightening under the wedding ring said director had bought her.

Silence again: Douglas had won at that particular set of jabs, but he has no wish to continue. It ceases to be satisfying when you argue with someone who's hated you for seven years and quite possibly two more after that. "Will I be able to have her for a week or so, after Christmas?"

"School starts too soon-"

"On January fourth. I did check, Jeannie."

"It's Jean. And fine." The line goes dead, and Douglas puts the phone down, setting it on the shelf in the bathroom and twisting off the taps: the bath is slightly overfull, and a very tired, decadent part of him revels in it.

At last he'll see his daughter, anyway. He doesn't get that every Christmas.

He drops his uniform aside and lowers himself into the bath, closing his eyes and dropping his head back. Two months single. Five years married to Helena. Seven years since he'd broken up with Jeannie. Eight years sober: eight years since Joanna was born. Twelve since he married Jean, fourteen since Kate had died, and sixteen since he and Kate had divorced, and-

He closes his eyes and drops himself under the bathwater, trying not to think about it. Nonsense, nonsense he oughtn't concern himself with. And not when it's too late to fix any of it, God. Bollocks to it all.

And special bollocks to Martin bloody Crieff, too, pretty freckled sod with bruises on his ankles and thick ginger hair.

* * *

It's months later that Martin finds out about it, about Douglas and Helena.

Douglas doesn't know why he tells him, doesn't know- well, no, he does know. Because he feels bad about Martin's father and his will those years back, certainly, and he doesn't want to spend the rest of the seven hours to Limerick (he's got three iPads in the hold to swap for a rather impressive amount of expensive saffron once he gets there) wallowing about it.

Martin's father was older than him, so he's heard, but not by much. God, Douglas is fifty one, and Martin is eighteen years younger than him. Eighteen years.

"I'm so sorry." He sounds so honest, so earnest, so honestly apologetic. Douglas truly wishes Martin Crieff was more of a bastard so that he wouldn't feel so awful about considering him with his clothes off. Because Martin doesn't mean any bad word he ever says after all, does he? Martin, at his core, is a gentle and sweet little creature, and he only truly struggles when Douglas enjoys provoking him.

"Thank you," Douglas says, because what else can one say? And he hasn't even told him the rest – hasn't told him about the divorce, or that they were already a bit- or that-

"Oh, God, if only I hadn't come round that night-" Well that, he just can't have, regardless of the fact that Douglas had the same thought..

"Oh, no, don't be silly." Douglas says, and the quip comes to him immediately, as they always do. "You didn't tell her, after all. No, I- I don't blame you. I blame the Chinese."

"What for?"

"Tai Chi." He's gotten over guilting Martin. He prefers the smiles to the wallowing. Martin doesn't smile, though. He just looks sort of thoughtful, gazing off for a moment.

"I think that was the Japanese." Douglas' lip twitches, and it's easy to slip into betting. And if he engineers it so that Martin wins? Well. It's worth seeing him brighten up a tad.

Yes, the next few months are decent, and it's Christmas, soon. He'll put a few scratchcards into Martin's Christmas thing – it's a ridiculous gift Douglas bought months ago, a stupid mug with "Planely in love with aviation!" on it with a big, red, bloody heart. Martin will love it, he's certain.

"Douglas?" Arthur is peering at Douglas with the rather disturbing face he gets when he's trying not to tell you something and desperately wants to. Goodness, it's difficult to look at, with how utterly ridiculous the young man's face is.

"Yes, Arthur?" Douglas does his best not to sound _too_ impatient, and Arthur doesn't notice at all.

"It's Christmas next month."

"Yes, Arthur, I know." Douglas stares at him, trying to figure out what the angle is – he thinks of Arthur as a boy, and Martin as a boy, though truly they're not so young, are they? Martin is thirty three, and Arthur will be thirty next year.

What a thought; just three years between Martin and Arthur. How utterly bizarre.

"Yeah, and I just- well, Skip's just- what I mean to say is-"

"Have you seen Martin's present for me?" Douglas asks, and Arthur jolts, his mouth open wide in a great, big O. Idiot boy.

"How did you know!?" Arthur opens his mouth to continue speaking, but Douglas holds up his hand for the boy to stop.

"I'll find out, Arthur," Douglas says delicately. "One oughtn't spoilt the surprise." Arthur's eyes are wide, and he fidgets from one of his feet to the other, biting his lip before he speaks again.

"But-"

"Arthur. It's secret." With that, Douglas grabs his coat and hurries up to his hotel room – his own, this time. His iPads are delivered, his saffron is safely stowed in the mechanics bay of the flight deck, and all is well.

And Arthur, well, goodness knows why he wants to tell him all about Martin's present for him – he's usually rather good about keeping presents relatively under wraps (ha), his issue with secrecy aside.

Ah, well.

He'll concern himself with it when the time arrives.


End file.
